Guilty: The Lost Classic Novel (17 page)

In my eagerness to compensate for my earlier secretiveness, I poured out all at once a confusing mass of information that should have emerged bit by bit, at different times, as it fitted naturally into our talk. I complicated it, too, by all sorts of incidents dragged in, regardless of relevance, in the hope of making the picture comprehensive – comprehensible it couldn’t have been. It must have sounded like a confession.

I was still holding her hand. I think its inertness was my first indication that I was failing – as I’d failed once before with a different person – to convey the perhaps incommunicable nature of my relationship with this man. But I went on talking, unable to believe she wouldn’t suddenly know just what I meant, for she’d always understood me so perfectly.

It was only when lines appeared on her white smooth forehead that I became silent, hating to see her perplexed or troubled. However, they must have been lines of vexation, for she withdrew her hand and, with a certain coldness that matched the gesture, said, ‘I’d no idea you were so dominated by Spector. Why didn’t you tell me all this before? You ought to see him again and try to make friends.’ I wanted to interrupt, to tell her she alone was important to me these days, but, mistaking my intention, she hurried on. ‘No, not only because of the flat but because it’s obvious that you won’t be happy till you’re on good terms with him.’

It was our first misunderstanding, the first time I’d heard that chill in her voice, and a sort of desperation made me exclaim, ‘I don’t care if I never set eyes on the fellow again’, continuing more calmly, ‘He was only important to me once because I was so lonely. Since I’ve known you I haven’t even thought of him. That’s why you haven’t heard much about him.’ She looked at me gravely without speaking; and I, conscious that I was no longer being strictly truthful, said no more, glad that she didn’t pursue the subject.

For the rest of the evening we went on as usual as if Spector hadn’t been mentioned. But our gaiety was a trifle forced; I was afraid we’d called up a ghost that wouldn’t be easily exorcized. And in that I was right; this was proved afterwards by our mutual inability to speak naturally of the man. Carla rarely uttered his name at all. And, though I refused to revert to my former reserve, I was incapable of talking about him simply and spontaneously; whatever I said seemed to have unintended implications, the most trivial remark developing undertones of startling significance.

The day after our conversation, capitulating deliberately, I admitted there was no real reason I shouldn’t ask my employer’s permission for the two of us to live here, except
that I was already in disfavour and felt certain it would be no good. She answered calmly that I must know what I was talking about – there must be some good reason for thinking he wouldn’t help us. Her face was composed and cool-looking, gentle, still, inexpressive. This unchanging composure of hers was sometimes faintly disturbing. It made me wonder now what she was really thinking. But I was glad of it, too, relieved that she didn’t want me to approach Spector.

I had, I told her, a much better plan. Why shouldn’t we occupy some of the rooms in her home, replacing the present tenants? I’d inherited a little money from my father, and, with this and my salary, I could certainly make up the full amount they were paying, so that her mother wouldn’t lose by the arrangement. I smiled, thinking our future already as good as settled, as I put forward this simple and obvious suggestion, wondering why neither of us had thought of it sooner.

To my surprise, Carla shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid that can’t be done.’ I thought she must be joking, imitating my objections of the previous day, until she went on to explain quite seriously that the rooms were let to officials of the highest grades, who couldn’t be asked to leave. ‘But, surely, in the circumstances …’ I began protesting, to break off hastily as I fancied I caught a gleam of amusement in her dark eyes. I seemed fated to make a fool of myself – or was she making a fool of me? Again I was struck by the singularly unrevealing serenity of her expression, her pale, smooth face perfect like a mask, at which I could gaze for ever, it was so clear and lovely. Yet something strange had looked out of her eyes for a moment – strangely disturbing. I’d believed there could never be any misunderstanding between us, but I’d been wrong, and now for a chilling second I seemed not to understand her at all. There was a suggestion about her of something obscure, secret and impenetrable. It was gone
almost before I’d seen it; but not before it had brought about a change that proved to be permanent in our emotional climate. It wasn’t possible to go back to where we’d been before; nor did I really wish to revert to a stage I seemed suddenly to have outgrown.

Summer was ending. In the sharper, cooler days that ensued, my former languid passivity seemed out of place. Though I loved Carla if possible more than ever, and still experienced in her company hours of relaxed happiness beyond all compare, my contentment now began to develop a reverse side that was correspondingly painful. Uneasy restlessness possessed me all the time we were apart. I was like a nervous traveller waiting for a train, existing in anxiety till our next meeting. If a day passed without seeing her, I became quite distracted, for without her I was lost and incomplete.

With typical spite, life afflicted me with these distressing sensations just when I couldn’t possibly be with her as much as before, because I’d started to look for a house for us and saw her only for a short time after the day’s search was over and sometimes not even then.

I remember very well how I started searching, diving headlong into the hateful business before my good resolutions had time to cool. This was the day after Carla had said indulgently, ‘What a child you are still’, stroking my hair while I sat on the floor at her feet. I wouldn’t disturb my dream-state to ask what she meant but assumed she referred to my undignified posture, which was one I loved to assume. Resting against her knees, feeling her hand on my head, I was sublimely happy, supremely content. This was all I wanted; just to lean on her, lulled into perfect peace by her rhythmic touch, secure in my dependence, relieved of every responsibility, almost of every thought, existing in a drowsy dream.

Vaguely I contemplated the carpet on which I was sitting,
remotely puzzled because its blurred pattern seemed so very familiar, though I’d never consciously noticed it till this moment, when the dim flowery thickets and tangled scrolls seemed to transfer themselves to the covering of something more resilient than floorboards. Suddenly it was a sofa I was sitting on. The warm protecting body I leaned against was clothed in tweed, through which I could feel the hard muscular masculine flesh, the underlying structure of the male skeleton. My child’s face, tingling from outdoor cold, was now beginning to burn in the heat of a fire long since reduced to ash. Yet, at the same time, words just spoken echoed confusingly in my head. Suddenly they ceased to be mere sounds, and I understood them, the floor hardening under me as time moved forward again.

Somewhat bewildered, I thought: But I’m not that child any longer. There was something I certainly shared with the boy so dependent on Mr Spector: thinking of the passive attitude I’d all along adopted towards Carla, as if her original act had fixed our relative positions for all time, it occurred to me that I’d merely exchanged one dependence for another. Perhaps I could only exist under a stronger nature’s dominion. But then I insisted to myself that my relationship with Spector had been quite different. There was no comparison; the two couldn’t be said to resemble each other in any way.

I jumped up abruptly, pushing a wisp of hair out of my eyes and, seeing Carla sitting there quietly, seized her in my arms. She struggled, laughing, protesting that she couldn’t breathe and, when I let her go, looked at me teasingly. ‘What’s the matter? I believe you were asleep down there – what were you dreaming about?’ My only answer was to embrace her again, forgetting my odd little journey into the past, which left me a disquieting legacy, nevertheless. My
dependence had suddenly started to make me uncomfortable. I wasn’t a child any more. I knew I ought not to hide behind Carla’s strength. I ought to go out and grapple with life and find a home for us both. For her sake, I believed I could do anything, even turn myself into a responsible adult person.

This was how I came to start searching for somewhere to live. The prospect of getting involved with the phoney mysticism of the Housing Bureau was so repugnant to me that if I’d had to go far to get there I doubt if my resolve would have stood the strain. But the place happened to be almost next door, down a dreary side street I’d never explored.

Considering its fantastic reputation, and the interdependence of individuals in city life, it was only to be expected that fragments of stories I’d heard should keep coming to me on the way there. I told myself that these tales of frustration and failure had all emanated from people in an abnormal state; no wonder they failed, when they were so agitated, incapable of the thoroughness and perseverance essential to success in any undertaking. It was up to me to avoid their mistakes, to keep cool and above all to make myself impervious to whatever suggestive techniques had induced their semi-hysteria. But wasn’t I already falling into the very trap against which I was warning myself, attributing mysterious unknown powers to the Bureau, even before I got there? Thank goodness I still had a sense of the ridiculous. Smiling at my own absurdity, I suddenly felt more confident, very much better. Carla loved me, and that was enough; I needn’t fear anyone in the world.

But, all the same, I wasn’t exactly looking forward, as I approached the building, to the coming interview with officials who were universally reported to be tyrannical and capricious – though they probably weren’t half as bad
as they were made out to be, I told myself, and entered boldly.

For a moment I was bewildered by the crowd filling the big room and by the dazzling fluorescent lights, which, presumably, were left on the whole day, for the wire-covered windows must have made the interior dark and gloomy at all times. As I grew accustomed to the scene, the details gradually emerged, and I saw a number of officials seated at large desks, like static islands, around which flowed sluggish streams of applicants, barely seeming to move. Evidently I was in for a long wait. This didn’t displease me; it would give me time to form my impressions and to decide which desk to approach.

No one took any notice of me, so I started a tour of inspection, following the narrow irregular spaces between the queues. What first struck me was the uncomplaining patience of all these people, for whom no convenience whatsoever had been provided, not even a wooden bench such as is to be found in the most Spartan waiting-rooms. Yet I observed old people and some who looked ill among them and women with babies in arms. Of course, I blamed the authorities for their lack of consideration; but it seemed to me the public were also to blame for their spineless submission, when, by making a combined protest, they could have got things put right.

After I’d been in the room a few minutes, I found that the light was starting to make my eyes ache. The naked tubes, fixed to the ceiling, diffused a stark white glare which lit up some faces with a ghastly pallor, distorting others by deep black shadows. This dazzle, no doubt, was the reason why all the officials wore eye-shades, extending in front of their faces like the peak of a jockey’s cap, casting a black pointed shade, which gave them all a curious similarity to one another, almost as if they were masked.

I could see how a credulous nervous person expecting horrors might find this effect sinister. But to me it was distinctly absurd, as if these dignified figures were sitting at their desks wearing paper caps made out of crackers. I really refused to be overawed by a man in a paper hat; and, humour again coming to my assistance, I decided, since the disguising shadow made it impossible to choose between them, to attach myself to the queue in front of a man who was distinguishable by his fox-red hair from the rest of his anonymous colleagues.

A slight stir diverted my attention, and, like a comment on what I’d been thinking, two hefty attendants in uniform pushed past with a stretcher, on which an old woman was lying unconscious. Her shabby hat, trimmed with a broken feather, must have fallen off and had been planted on her chest beside a worn black bag and some untidy parcels she’d evidently been holding, so that the general effect was of a collection of rubbish being carried off to the dustbin. I was astonished by the indifference of the bystanders, who listlessly drew back to let the stretcher pass, scarcely glancing at its pathetic burden. Their want of interest seemed to show such a fundamental lack of common humanity that, when I noticed a man near by reacting very differently, literally hopping about with rage and scowling at the attendants, I was glad one person at least shared my own feelings, and couldn’t resist saying to him, ‘Isn’t it outrageous? Why don’t people complain?’

At the sound of my voice, he turned and glared at
me
, perched on one leg, clutching the other foot with both hands, so that I belatedly realized he was angry because his toe had been stepped on, not on the old woman’s account, as I’d imagined. ‘Who are you? What’s your game?’ he muttered with such venom that I was thankful a sudden forward
movement of the crowd separated us, taking him out of my sight. And soon after this it was my turn to stand in front of the official’s desk.

He, seeing I was the last person he’d have to deal with, had already begun to relax, leaning back, pushing his eye-shade up at a rakish angle and rubbing his eyes, revealing an unexpectedly young lively face. ‘Last but not least, eh?’ he said cheerfully, rather as if enjoying a secret joke in which I was involved.

Nothing could have surprised me more than his behaviour and appearance, and I probably showed this, for he seemed to become more amused, while continuing to rub his eyes, exclaiming, ‘Lord, what a day! The weekends are always the worst, but today’s been a record.’